Pre-Rehab #2: Prayer vs. Percocet

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 Still haven’t made it to rehab. Thank God! Speaking of Him, I’ve decided to hand my troubles over to the Lord and let him work them out. Of course, with me being the impatient one, I have decided to weigh out my possibilities while he does his work.

Options

  • Rehab–Obviously.
  • Percocet–to ease the pain
  • Acceptance–Just accept the fact that I’m nuts and move on
  • Prayer–this would be the “hand it over to the Lord” option

While my heart is not set on going to rehab, my mind is definitely set on sending me straight to HELL. Hell? Why would hell be an option? Let me explain. The path to the cross is a tumultuous journey. You can’t do this anymore…you can’t do that anymore. Basically, you are confined to “Christian friendly” activities, thoughts, and actions. For me, all of these are basically hell on earth.

So last week, one of my best friends invited me to her VBS. Just as well, my mother, who actually has fun at church, reminded me that our church was also having a few mid-week activities. Does anyone see the problem? For the hellions like me, going to church during the week means that you have to practice all that Christian-like behavior that you’ve been praying for: “Lord help me to be patient…Lord help me to be kind.” Patience and kindness are not allowed in my work week! I like to boss people around at work, I thrive on my daily dose of online gossip, and I refuse to give up my rush-hour cussing.  I agreed and amiably attended a few of the events. Unfortunately, I couldn’t make it to each event on each day; somehow a nap after work sounded so much better.

Day One: Don’t worry, this won’t be very long. I only made it to two events. The first event was VBS at my friend’s church. Good news-dinner afterwards. Bad news-My friend couldn’t make it. Therefore, I was forced to sit alone and make slight fun of the members (in my head of course) instead of giggling with her in the pews. In all, I guess that was actually good news because I was able to concentrate on the delivery of the bible lesson. NOT! Being without her company actually made it easier for me to concentrate on anything that I found hilarious. Unfortunately, in the end the joke was on me. I found not one thing hilarious, and didn’t get anything out of the lesson except for “blood is thicker than mud.” To make matters worse, no one told me that I had a huge pudding stain on my shirt. I realized the nickel-sized atrocity when I turned to speak to someone behind me and got a whif of chocolate. So, I  sat in the class the entire time intending to laugh at someone else, and everyone’s staring at this huge pudding stain. I guess God decided to punish me for my cruel intentions. Being the VP and life-time member of the Exaggerating Club, I immediately freaked out, said my good-byes, and headed home.  See how the devil tries to ruin your day. Bastard!

Ultimately, I didn’t have a bad time. The speaker, who was able to keep me awake with his witty puns and animated behavior, got an “A” plus from me. He should take his act on the road. I can see it now—“Victor’s VBS Does Vegas”.

Day Two: The trauma from day one forced me to renege on any church-related events until later that week. I figured I’d give my mother a chance to see that I am devouted to walking a righteous path. But righteous like Bob Marley, not Jesus. That would be too much pressure for me. Maybe I should take that back. Too late….what’s done is done. Oh damn! Okay, I don’t want to go to hell for blasphemy so I guess I’ll go with Jesus’ righteous path instead of Bob Marley’s. You see why I should be in rehab?

So I leave work a few minutes early just so I can get a decent seat. The event was supposedly a really big deal, so I had to be there on time. My mother, who insists on being a servant of the Lord until she dies, was standing at the entrance passing out programs when I arrived. The moment she laid her eyes on me, she did that damn fake shouting that I hate. If you have a black mom/aunt/granny, then you know what I’m talking about. The little dance they do (without any music) to celebrate the small miracles in their lives’. She always does that little dance when I  a)make it to church on time  b)when she slides her nosy eyes on my offering envelope and notices that I’m paying my tithes, or c)when I come to church on any day other than Sunday. That shit is so damn embarassing! Because she’s my mother, and she usually gives me a big hug and kiss after her impromtu dance solo, I forgive her and will continue to allow her to embarass me.

After the little dance, followed by the hug and kiss, I noticed another atrocity. Somehow, somebody decided to turn the church foyer into a flea market. The nice tables that were once decorated with lovely flower arrangements were now covered with knock-off accessories—shades, purses, belts. There was even a table where you could make your own perfume. To alleviate the distractions, I went into the ladies room to prepare myself.

Okay, so here’s me prepping in the mirror: “Don’t cuss! You can do it. When someone gives you good news, don’t say ‘Are you fuc**ing kidding me?’. When you accidentally drop something, don’t say ‘Shit!’. ”

For some reason, I think people who cuss are extremely tacky. However, although my mind despises cussing, my mouth tends to like it. My mind and my mouth are always in constant battle–further reasoning as to why I may need to check into rehab. Yes, I’m going nuts. Yes, I’m knowledgeable of it. No, there’s nothing you can do for me except pray. Hopefully your deepest prayers will lift me out of my ailment. Until then, I’ll be contacting a street pharmacist for a good deal on some percocet.

Sincerely ty!

P.S.

If you’ve come to realize that I am indeed a nutcase and should seek treatment, let me know your thoughts. Which option do you think would work best for me?                        

A)Rehab  B)Percocet   C)Acceptance   D) Prayer

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